


Vinyl

by Vietta



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, a make-out session that gets heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6575365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vietta/pseuds/Vietta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You used to tell me this was the kind of music pretentious old men make love to.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinyl

Whiskey burns Tseng’s throat as he drains his glass, ice brushing his lips as he seeks out the last drops. It is closing time, three a.m., and he and Reno are some of the last stragglers in the bar. Rude and Elena had gone home a few hours before so they could catch the last taxis of the evening and avoid a walk home. He and Reno had made themselves comfortable at the bar, still immersed in conversation. Even after their words had dried up they had stayed, drinking in affable silence.

Now he follows in Reno’s wake as they shuffle out of the bar into Edge’s freshly paved streets, the night air cold and biting. The flicker of streetlamps light black alleys and other patrons of other bars staggering into each other. Reno is shivering, his denim jacket thin and ineffective against the chill remains of a lingering winter. Tseng contemplates offering up his scarf, but decides to keep the heat tucked around his throat where it belongs. There are no more taxis running, not that Tseng would have hailed one if they were available. Reno had extended an offer of a couch early on in the night to keep him at his seat in the bar and he still intended to take him up on it. His own apartment was cold and lonesome and he didn’t want to go back to it. Even though his back protests the notion of a couch, he walks shoulder to shoulder with Reno, their breath fogging in front of them as they make light conversation to keep them distracted from the chill and their waning intoxication.

Reno fumbles with his keys and lets them into his studio apartment, the inside warm and smelling of cigarettes. Tseng slides his shoes off at the door, letting Reno close it behind them. There is no place for him to set his coat, so he lays it across the back of the sofa. His scarf follows it, folded neatly. “You need a coat rack.” He glances back at Reno, sees him kicking his shoes off into a small pile near the door. “And a shoe rack.” They’ve had this conversation at every place Reno has lived in over the past twelve years. Tseng doubts Reno will ever act on it.

“I know.” Reno’s jacket lands in a heap on the floor next to his shoes.

Reno goes to his bedroom, or what passes for one, and tells Tseng to make himself at home. There are no walls inside the place aside from those creating privacy for the bathroom. Everything else blends together in the small apartment. Curtains hang from rods set in the ceiling to create a bedroom for Reno, the fabric not reaching the floor and giving Tseng a view of Reno’s calves as the man disappears behind the self made partition. As Reno shuffles about near his bed, Tseng lets himself wander the rest of the place. He’s not been to this apartment since Reno moved in and is fairly impressed with what the man has managed to fit into the small space. A kitchen is established by appliances and a thin wooden table, papers and bullet casings scattered across its surface. There are rings where Reno sets his coffee in the morning and a few scorch marks dotted around a tray half full of spent cigarettes. A few chairs are tucked into a corner, used only on the rare occasions Reno has company. There’s a large glass door opening out onto a metal box that serves as a patio beyond Reno’s living room. Tseng can see a small glass table with empty beer cans and an ashtray on it, two metal chairs settled obliquely beside it. The living room is separated from the rest by a couch set across from Reno’s entertainment center and a large overstuffed recliner that, just by looking, Tseng can tell is Rude’s spot, not Reno’s.

It’s this area that draws Tseng’s attention, partly because he’s going to be sleeping there and partly because it surprises him what he sees there. Reno has the expected, a television and stereo system with a small shelf next to the two full of tapes and discs for each. Beside the shelf is what has Tseng’s interest piqued. There is an old record player with a glass lid set on a table, the needle still on the record where Reno had been listening to it. He lifts the glass and sets the record spinning where Reno had stopped its progress.

Reno has an armload of sheets and blankets when he emerges from the curtains, his step faltering when Tseng turns up the volume to filter through the apartment. Tseng lets his hands settle on either side of the player, watching the disc turn with a small smile. It’s an old blues album that is warped slightly at the edges, the pitch quavering as the needle scratches over the flaws. He had a copy once, before he ‘died’ at the Temple of the Ancients. Shinra had cleared out his belongings from his apartment before his survival had been made public knowledge, checking through his things for any sensitive information. All of his material posessions had been returned when he recovered, but the blues album hadn’t been found. He had forgotten about it. “You used to tell me this was the kind of music pretentious old men make love to.”

“It is.” Reno’s face is flushed red as he starts tugging the couch out into a bed, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed.

Tseng let’s Reno arrange things for his comfort, hands still framing the player. The beat of the song is slow and raw, tinny guitars and a deepthroated singer creating a sensuous sound. It brings back memories, pleasant and not, and he lets them play behind his eyes. It’s not until Reno is behind him, setting a tumbler of chilled whiskey in his hand, that he brings his attention back to the present. He accepts the glass, his gaze still fixed on the spinning record, and feels Reno press against his back. “Is that what you bought it for, Reno?”

“To fuck to?” Reno rests his chin against Tseng’s shoulder, his hands coming to rest beside his on the table.

Tseng takes a drink, let's honeyed whiskey rest on his tongue before swallowing it. “To make love to pretentious old men to.”

“Not pretentious old men.” Thin fingers trace the back of Tseng’s hand and he can feel Reno’s heat through the layers of his suit. “Classy old men.”

The words are spoken into his neck and Tseng suppresses a shiver.  “Just how many classy old men do you know?”

“One or two.” Reno presses closer and his lips brush Tseng’s jawline. “Not many I wanna fuck though.” Tseng doesn’t move as Reno relaxes into him, a hand wandering to the front of his suit jacket to undo the buttons there. “But I like this music. It’s like a soft ass grab for your ears.”  
More whiskey hits Tseng’s mouth, his face starting to burn as Reno slides a hand beneath his jacket. “A what for your ears?”

“Ass grab, Tseng. Keep up.” Reno is smirking, Tseng can tell, and he traces idle patterns across his stomach. “It’s got that nice slow beat ya just wanna move your hips to,” he demonstrates this, grinding softly against Tseng once, “and a nice deep voice purrin’ in your ear, settin’ the mood. Ya ever dance to this Tseng?”

“Can’t say I have.” Tseng swallows the rest of his whiskey and sets the glass aside before turning to face Reno. “I don’t tend to dance.”

“I do.” His eyes are sharp despite the sweet alcohol scent of his breath. A smirk is on his lips as he runs his hands down Tseng’s chest, shifting his jacket aside. “Right here, by myself. I just turn it on and dance to it, nice and slow.”

Tseng shivers, his eyes hooded as Reno unbuttons his shirt. He cups his subordinate’s chin, tilts his face up when his eyes start to follow his hands. This isn’t something he should be allowing, this closeness, and under normal circumstances he wouldn’t be. They’re intoxicated; all the more reason for Tseng to put a stop to Reno’s enthusiastic attempts at undressing him. Tseng trails his fingers over Reno’s jawline and shivers when the redhead presses him back against the table, grinding softly against him in time to the music. He isn’t sure which of them instigates the kiss, but he knows he isn’t stopping it and he should be.

It's when Reno moans, a hand cupping his front, that he brings himself back to the moment. Reno has lovebites along his neck, small and red and Tseng isn’t sure when he put them there, but he can see them against his pale skin when he puts distance between them. Reno looks put out and confused, his breaths short and his face flushed, when Tseng starts building up that professional distance he had let fall completely. “We’re drunk, Reno. We can’t.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but when they do Reno nods his understanding. He lets Tseng pull his shirt back on without interference, though Tseng can see the disappointment in his face. He doesn’t remember Reno undressing him, doesn’t remember when his shirt and jacket were pushed off his shoulders or his belt undone and this disturbs him slightly. Reno is in a similar state, his fingers fumbling as he redoes his shirt and pants. Tseng can’t recall getting that far. He rubs his face, taking deep steadying breaths. He turns off the record player, closes the glass lid, and when he turns to face Reno again, the man is gone behind his wall of curtains. Tseng can see a tattooed calf, Ifrit’s burning eyes standing out in harsh relief against pale skin. He wants to ask if the other man is okay, but can’t find the words. Instead he takes his glass to the sink and sits himself on the pull out bed.

“You okay, Tseng?” Reno emerges from the curtains in his pajamas, a small pile of fabric in his hands. He looks concerned, his face still slightly flushed, the marks still bright on his throat.

Tseng looks up, taking the small pile of clothes offered to him. “I’m alright. Are you?”

“Yeah, man. Shit happens. It’s okay.” Reno rubs the back of his neck, shifting slightly where he stands, “those are some clothes Rude left here. They should fit okay. If the mattress is lumpy you can blame him; he’s the only one who sleeps on it.”

“Thank you, Reno.” And with that exchange, things get back on track. They both act like nothing happened. They go to bed. The next morning they say nothing about it. Tseng buys himself a new copy of the album, but doesn’t find himself able to listen to it. Not when Reno still has his original.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited for grammar/typos.


End file.
